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Monday, April 28, 2014

When
my friend Angela of Jumping With My Fingers Crossed tagged me to be a part of a
blog tour she was participating in, and said that all I had to do was write a
blog post about my writing process, I was all, “Yeah, man! There’s nothing I like better than talking
about how I do things! I have so much to
offer the world I am the QUEEN of the writing process WHEEEEEEEEE!!!!

I
mean, these guys are for real, people.
Many bloggers who I know and read are real writers who write for
newspapers and magazines and have written books or are working on books and
write for websites and own websites and have English degrees and get paid and EVERYTHING. I’m a person who sits at her laptop and hammers
out sentences and paragraphs that serve mainly to expose that I’m a weirdo.

Then
I remembered that just a few weeks ago I went to a writing conference where
Phil Donahue himself told me personally that You Can Write, that this is my
purpose, that I have a responsibility to share my experiences, feelings, and
ideas. And by personally I mean that I was sitting in the back of a hotel
ballroom while he was speaking to me and 300 other people.

And
then I considered again these other writers who I read, and I saw myself as a
part of their group, and I climbed up out of my shame hole. And they inspired me, as only writers can do
for each other. I can write. And I have a writing process. And ho-ho-ho, I’m gonna share it with you.

1. What am I working on?

Always,
always blog posts. I write two blogs –
this one and a faith one called Stumbling Everyday. I try posting in each regularly, but I’m not
always successful. I work on several
blog posts at a time, which means that at any given point there are a few unfinished
ones hanging around, and when they’re finished I’ll clean them up and hit the
old publish button. Or maybe I won’t
publish them at all, which happened recently - I wrote two posts that I decided
not to publish for different reasons.
Maybe someday you’ll read them.

I
also write the occasional guest post, appear in articles for writer friends, or
less frequently, do sponsored posts.I
love to be published on other websites but mainly that has happened with posts
that I’ve already published on my blog.I’d love to say that I write a lot that will bypass the blog to go
directly to editors, since it is a huge thrill for me to send something out
there to be read and judged and deemed worthy for publication, but for now I
got nothing.Life is really, really busy
this time of year, and this year especially, so unfortunately I’m not devoting
as much time to writing as I wish I could right now.Aaaaand I have a terrible Facebook
habit.There I said it.

2. How does my writing
differ from others in its genre?

I
believe that even if all writers write about the same topic, we will each have
something different to say. My writing
differs from others in its genre because it’s MY voice. Nobody else writes like I do because I’m the only
me out here.

I am honest. I write like I think. I am not afraid to tell you that I messed up. It’s sort of what I strive to talk
about. If I did something stupid, and I'm aware of it (oh, boy, that's the whole key, isn't it?), you can be sure that you'll read about it here.

Sometimes
I write humor, and sometimes my writing is heartfelt, and I won’t lie – I
worry about not having a specific genre.
I am working on combining the two a little bit better, because I have
really serious thoughts that morph into humorous ones pretty quickly, and there’s
a way to write like this that I just haven’t mastered. On days that I think I succeed at this, the
angels sing, and the days that I don’t, I just hit the publish button and get another cup of coffee.

3. Why do I write what I
do?

I
want people to read what I write and say “Huh.
She is really awkward. Sometimes
I feel like this. I can totally
relate.” I want to encourage people to
not be afraid to be themselves. If my little blog can encourage even one
person to be brave enough to say “You know what? I screwed up, and I feel like an idiot, and I
will do better next time,” than I am over the moon happy.

I
feel like our society puts too much emphasis on showing only the best parts of
who we are, and people really suffer because they feel they can never measure
up. I want to come alongside them and
say, “So you messed up. Everybody
does. It’s not the end of the
world. Now get out there and do
better.” And then I’ll slap them on the
fanny and watch them run off to tackle the world and maybe even trip over their
own feet in the process and I’ll laugh at them and with them because when
people trip over their own feet it’s totally hilarious for everyone involved.

I
know: Crazytown. But I am a super duper
morning person. I read a little, and
write in a journal, and then I open my drafts document and I write. Some days, I already have an idea
all ready to go and I just write it out.
Other days I sit in front of my computer and peck away and give up and go
read some more. Then the kids are up and
I help them get ready to go and I take a walk and I come back and write.

When
I have a new idea but I don’t have the time to expand on it, I quick type up a
sentence or two and a title – always a title – and the date to get it down in
draft form before my mind eats the idea. When I publish something, I transfer it to a
“finished” document to avoid republishing something.

Throughout
the day I write here and there, and other than chores and errands and
appointments I am at the computer. I
keep pads of paper and post-its everywhere that I use to jot down ideas – in
the car, in desks, in my purse. I combine all these pieces of paper in a little notebook I
keep on my desk and when I get stuck I refer to them.

Where the magic happens. It's so magical that I don't even need a computer.

I don't always use these paper scraps ideas. Sometimes
I don’t remember where I was going with an idea. Once I wrote an idea for a blog post on my
checkbook ledger and it contained the following little gem: “Jam out with your
clam out. Milk, milk, lemonade. Around the corner, fudge is made.” That was fun to read every time I opened my
checkbook to log a debit.

My
biggest struggle with writing is avoiding time-absorbing social media. I also struggle with writing before doing everything else. When I publish
something I feel like I am released to do other things, but until then I feel a
constant pull or redirection toward getting something written. I think this constant pull is why writers sometimes
feel a little crazy. We operate in our
own heads so much and there’s never an end to the task. I try to tell myself that if I write a little
everyday I’ve done well. Sometimes I believe it.

***

Part of this blog tour is to tag other writers to share their writing
process. I am fortunate to have many
friends who also write, so it wasn’t
hard for me to come up with a couple of people to do one of these posts and continue the blog tour! Look for their posts soon.

First is Kim of Co-Pilot Mom, a blog about life with her husband, Co-Pilot Dad, and
their adorable boys, Alpha and Bravo (not their real names, silly!). I
adore Kim’s writing - her style is warm, funny, and heartfelt. She weaves stories with details that make me smile, and reflects about life as a
mom and wife in a way that I relate to so much. Kim has a knack for using words and images that I instantly connect with I love pouring a cup of coffee and reading Kim's blog.Second is Erin from One-Sided Momma. Erin kicks me in the teeth with everything she writes. And that is a good thing. Also a mom of two, Erin tells stories about her life with such rawness of emotion and honesty that I often find myself laughing and yet coming away from her blog in tears. Also gifted with the use of imagery that I can fully relate to, she dares you to stand next to her and see things from her very eloquent perspective.

Thursday, April 24, 2014

We
spent the holiday weekend at my parents’ house, which is great. Kids of all ages get spoiled, we gaze upon different
scenery, we see loved ones we haven’t seen in a while, and everybody is relaxed
and cheery and we do things that are out of the norm for us.

My
parents live in the country, which means plenty of time outside doing outside,
country things. Now, for me, lover of
all things inside, this usually isn’t so awesome. I’d much rather do almost anything inside
than outside, where the wind blows everything all around, bugs land on you, and
it threatens to rain nearly any second.

But
last weekend, the sun warmed our winter-chilled bodies, the wind wasn’t
terribly blowy, and the newly minted spring weather was so… springy. I’m not sure if it was the fresh air that made
everyone a little giddy and everything a little weird, but we did and saw
things that I have never experienced before.

***

The
day we arrived, the boys golfed while the girls stayed home. Our daughter got some alone time with this
one…

He's home! I thought the day would never arrive.

…while
my mom and I sat on her patio enjoying the gentle breeze and peace of the
afternoon, sipping wine and solving all the world’s problems, each other’s
problems, and the problems of nearly everyone we know. Do you have problems? We solved them.

Then
we heard gunshots.

Now,
don’t get all Neighborhood Watch on me.
My parents live in a rural setting, and they have exactly two neighbors. When there’s a gunshot, even miles away, they
can hear it on a quiet day. Usually
during hunting season, but whatever. One
of their neighbors was out doing some target practice, is all.

Soon
we realized that we were hearing some sort of machine gun. We sat there with our raised glasses
listening to the rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat of a rapid-fire killing machine. “They
will run out of ammo soon,” my mother wisely observed, seasoned to this
particularly unnerving brand of noise pollution.

It
went on for an hour. No matter. It’s a well-known fact that after a few
glasses of wine, the sound of machine gun fire sort of goes away.

As
the wine helped us resign ourselves to the war zone, the men returned bearing
pizza. The six of us snarfed it down
like dogs. Then my dad offered to take us on a little ride over the river and
through the woods on his ATV.

To
scout for groundhogs. We saw one, dead. In case you were wondering. A good time was had by all, even when the
engine flooded and refused to start and my mom and I started walking back to
finish off the wine.

***

The
next day we visited my grandmother, who also lives out in the country. I believe the correct term for this type of
location is “the sticks.” My cousin, her
husband, and their three children were there, and the kids fell into place as cousins
do. They rarely see each other yet still
manage to come together with no warm-up period needed, just as my cousin and I
and our husbands do. Hugged hellos and
catch-up conversations filled the air around us, the men working at putting
Grandma’s new porch furniture together and the women fussing over Grandma and
the lunch she had prepared, pretending to stay out of her way as we set the
table, stirred the soup, and snuck desserts before any real food was on the
table. The kids ran outside armed with
kites and we laughed at them trying to raise the kites into the still air.

The
afternoon was a pleasant one, and as we cleaned up the kitchen after lunch, we
munched on the ubiquitous candy in Grandma’s house and went outside to see what
the kids were up to.

They
were taking turns setting fires on the sidewalk using a magnifying glass.

Our
conversations continued as one by one our kids came up to show us the mud on
their shoes and clothing and the armloads of foraged walnuts they carried
(“Don’t hold them close to your body – they’ll stain your shirt!”) to roast on
the fire that had now been built on a rock a little further away from the
house.

At
one point one of the children peed on the fire to put it out when it started to
spread. As you do.

Soon
after, we observed one of the older children use an ancient ax to chop up a
fallen branch. I wondered who we’d have
to rush to the ER first: him, or my cousin’s husband who was now cleaning the
gutters while wobbling on a ladder propped against Grandma’s house? My husband was helping him; they were both
dressed nicely as if we were all going out to a movie later. I was the only driver who had ever lived
there. Do I remember how to get to the hospital?

Grandma
sat peacefully, enjoying the company and watching the men scoop rotten leaves
into buckets. I turned to my cousin, gestured
at the motley crew of people around us aged 93 to 5 in all their random
activity, and asked “What exactly is happening here? Fires, public peeing, roasted nuts, chopping,
gutter cleaning?” My cousin gave me a knowing
smile and replied sagely, mouth stuffed with a chocolate crunch bar, “Happy Redneck Easter.”

***

Later
that evening, my other grandmother came to my parents’ house for dinner. My mom had prepared a big meal for us, and I
am embarrassed to say that I did not help at all. I sat outside talking to my grandmother while
the kids flitted around tossing the cat into the air and punching each other in
the stomach. After a bit, they asked if
they could go down to the creek.

“Of
course,” I replied, wondering where their boundless energy came from. I was exhausted. An hour passed, and it was soon time to
eat. My husband and I loaded ourselves
into the ATV to pick up the kids and get them washed up for supper. This is what we found:

And
this is what happened:

And
then we ate and watched a questionably appropriate movie. Everyone fell asleep except for the kids, who
deemed said movie their new favorite and can we get it on DVD. As I went to bed I wondered when it happened
that being hosed off no longer ensured that my children would be dead tired at the end
of the day.

***

Finally
it was Easter Sunday. I set out the kids’
baskets, taking note of the candy I would be stealing later, and enlisted the
men to help with the egg hiding for the kids when they woke up. Yes.
My kids are old. They know I am the Easter Bunny. Yes. I am stretching these traditions out a bit too
long.

They
each had to find twenty eggs. Our
daughter found all of hers right away.
We had to point out almost all the eggs to our son. I’ll just let that sink in a little while I
bash my head against the wall. #Men #FindingThings #GAH

After
breakfast, we colored eggs because we forgot about it the day before when we
were hosing children down. We dyed the
eggs and then squirted an extra drop of food coloring on the end of each. They looked like bleeding eyeballs. We enjoyed them for a moment and then swiftly
cracked them open, making them into deviled eggs. We did not go to church because there was
fishing to do.

We
ate – AGAIN – and visited with friends, who had their own wacky Easter stories
to tell. It made me feel better about our
own wacky Easter. Maybe this was the
year that everything got weird. Or maybe nothing was really different and I was just more present and noticed it all.
In any case, it seemed like this holiday was one to remember. Nobody seemed to be complaining.

Hope
you had an holiday that was full of shenanigans. I've found that it's really the only way to do Easter.

Monday, April 14, 2014

I
just got back from a four-day weekend extravaganza in Dayton, Ohio, which is a
place that defies many electronic attempts at finding the correct road, direction,
and exit ramp, and also home of the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop.

It
was fabulous. I’m not talking about the
eight-hour drive that I blithely decided to do alone. For my own future reference: Employ national geography knowledge next time. Ohio is far away.

It
wasn’t fabulous in a Sex and the City glam-fabulous way. Dayton, folks. Not the epicenter of all things that are
happening in the world. Although there was talk of something something blah blah basketball. I don't know.

It
was fabulous in the way that three hundred humor bloggers and book authors and
wannabe writers convened and networked and met for the first time even if they
were going to be sharing a hotel room. Writers
are brave people, folks.

It
was fabulous in the way we asked each other “What do you write?” and every
answer was followed by an interesting conversation and an exchange of business
cards and maybe even a picture or two.

It
was fabulous in the way that three hundred people sat together in auditoriums
and classrooms and learned what it was to be a writer, whether you write books
or blogs or newspaper columns or in a journal that you keep in your nightstand.

It
was fabulous in the way we all were inspired to write, and write, and then write
some more. Because when you write you
are a writer. I needed that inspiration,
that validation.

It
was fabulous in the way that we learned about the late Erma Bombeck and the
legacy she left to the world of humor writers and especially to each individual
writer whose goal is to marry every real message and truth with a laugh or two. After all, if you don’t laugh in this life,
you will die in the corner weeping.

And
it was fabulous because this happened:

That's Phil Donahue!I'm pretty sure he fell in love with me at this moment.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

I’m
on Facebook a lot, and I have to admit, my least favorite part about it is that people brag about their kids.

This
is not to say that I hate pictures of
people’s kids. I love those. Post pics of your kids, please. I do like seeing them. Kids are usually smiling, and having fun, and
doing cool and silly things that kids do.
And they’re always cute. So
please, continue with the photos of your kids.
And your cats. Oh my goodness,
don’t ever stop the cats.

But
the bragging.Sigh.

I
don’t know why I’m like this. Maybe it’s
because I don’t brag about my kids really ever. I’ve never been much of a braggart in
general. I’ve always been a little wary
of people who are. What are they trying
to hide with their pride?

Everyone
loves their kids. They want to share with
the world how awesome they are. I could
crow about my kids. They do plenty for
me to crow about. But I don’t. I consider that there might be a person out
there who can’t boast about his or her kids, and that keeps me from boasting
about my own. I don’t want to make
people feel bad because my kids are amazing.
Or maybe I don’t want people to look at my kids and be all, “Oh-ho-ho,
they’re so great, are they? Well, let’s just sit back and wait for them to
fall.”

Because
let’s face it: someday, my kids are going to fall.

But
then I wonder: am I less proud of my kids because I don’t post about the
wondrous things they do each day? Am I a
terrible parent because I don’t share with the world all the ways they make me proud
for just being their mom?

What does that even
mean, exactly?

I
love my kids. There are certain things I
love about them that have nothing to do with what they’ve accomplished or even the
intrinsic parts of our relationship that began with me carrying them in my body
for all those months and then raising them all these years. They’re turning into people whom I love for
other reasons. Here are a few:

I
love that he keeps his room neat.

I
love her ability to make crafts from cardboard, even though there are half
finished projects all over the house.

I
love that they like each other’s friends.

I love that he looks back 3 times while walking to the bus stop just to see if I’m still watching him walk to the bus stop. I love that he waves and smiles.

I love her loud, open-mouthed laugh.

I
love that they ask how each other’s day was.

I
love his sensitivity.He thinks about
things.

I love that she sticks up for her dad.

I
love that they both consider Pop-Tarts appropriate gifts to give and receive.

I
love his passion for video games, even though he spends way too much time on
them.

I
love her hair.

I
love that when they get mad at each other they can’t stay away from each other,
even though it’s frustrating and I want to bang my head against the wall.

I
love his low, subversive chuckle.

Love that she’s an unapologetic carnivore.

I love his freckles.

I
love that she has a safe place for everything.

I
love that he sticks up for me.

I
love that when watching her play basketball I can see myself in her movements,
even though I was never an athlete.

Love that he loves strawberries.

I
love her self-confidence. She knows who
she is, today.

I love how he communicates with his eyes.

I
love her abiding optimism.

I love that even though they sometimes say they hate each other, I can tell that they don't.

Monday, April 7, 2014

I
think I’ll get my bangs cut again. Well, I like eggs, and I like cake, so I'll have both. I’m so tired of this table – out to the curb
it goes. We’ll eat dinner in the living
room for a while. Yes! Let’s pave a large portion of our backyard for a
basketball court!

Do
you remember Forrest Gump? Remember when
Jenny was a hippie and she’s singing on the street for change with some other
hippies and this dude rolls up in a VW bus and asks if any of them would like
to go to San Francisco and she says “I’ll go”?
That’s me. That sounds good. San Francisco sounds like fun.

A
month after my husband and I met, I asked him to come with me to
Europe for an academic conference I would be attending in six months. When he said “sure,” just like Jenny would, I
knew I had met my soul mate. When we
arrived at the hotel, we were shocked to see that the bathroom in our room was in our room - a toilet, sink, and shower stall
not more than ten feet from everything else. No separate bathroom. THE TOILET WAS IN THE BEDROOM.

We
were not at that stage of our
relationship then, but whatevs. Everybody poops. #yolo

It
worked out. We had a lot of laughs on
that trip.

My
snap decision making has gotten me into trouble, especially when I was
younger. Did you know that all four hubcaps of a Chevrolet Caprice Classic will pop off at one time when you land after catching some air? And if you are attending
a rodeo during an Arizona spring, you really should carry more in the pockets of
your cute white cut-offs than a bunch of Skoal Bandits. Namely, sunscreen. But everybody does this stuff when they're young. Well, maybe not the Skoal Bandits.

I
majored in psychology because it sounded good, moved from one state to another and then back again and again and again because it sounded good, got married
because it sounded good, had babies because it sounded good, bought a house in this neighborhood because it sounded
good, bought a Groupon for a Barre class because it sounded good. None of these decisions took a
long time to make, and so far, so good. Except for the Barre class. I haven't actually done it yet.

"Hey! Let's let the kids play the goldfish game at a carnival.

It's rigged - they won't win."

I
just don’t take a long time to make decisions.When I’m asked to do something, if my immediate reaction isn’t “No,” I
ask for some time to think before I respond.That’s so cute.Full disclosure: I don’t think about it.I remember the question days later and either
respond yes or no depending on how I feel about it at that time. Maybe this is how everybody thinks about
things.Or maybe you’re thinking that I’m
kind of a jerk.I hope it’s not that.It’s just that thinking too hard on a subject, mulling over all the possible outcomes and pros and cons - that confuses me.If I stopped to think
about all the ins and outs of every decision, I’d sit in my house and do
nothing, ever.

And
that’s not living.

I will probably continue to make snap decisions. It's how I do the decision-making.
When it really counts, I can force myself to stop and think, or I confer
with close friends or my husband, who has grown a little in this area and who now
has sharper decision-making skills that we both rely on for important things.

But
not all things are important, and we can both live with a snap decision that
may seem weird to the rest of the world.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

When
I had kids, I didn’t know that my inner comedian would surface so strongly. I had practiced on my kid brother when I was
growing up, doing outrageous things to get him to laugh (and sometimes cry),
but as a parent, I figured all that was behind me.

I
was wrong.

It
became my life’s work to get our children to smile and laugh. Our son, blessed with dimples beyond anyone’s
control, has these apple cheeks that are two round balls when he smiles hard. My mission was to produce those apple
cheeks every chance I got.

Our
daughter is the giggler. Originally a
colicky baby, she traded her screams for belly laughs that came more easily
than they did for our son. All it took was
a funny face to do the trick, usually.

As
they grew, things I’d do to elicit laughs from my kids evolved from burying my
face in their bellies and necks, playing peek-a-boo and kissing their toes, to
tickle torture and tickle monster and chase and adding my own details to
storybooks that usually involved farting and burping.

“Then
Snow White opened the door and saw an old woman who was carrying a basket of
apples. Snow White let her in, and the
old hag let a fart slip out and it stunk up the whole house and Snow White
threw up all over the floor.”

I
was often in trouble for winding them up before bedtime instead of settling
them down.

They
began to get in on the action, adding their own details to stories they read
and making up jokes for every season.
Halloween jokes are the easiest to make up and remember. Witches, ghosts, skeletons, and mummies are silly.

Things
really got hilarious when they were old enough to be pranked, and I essentially
gave them ideas to surprise my husband and me in similar ways. We all fell victim to the old taped sprayer
trick, them barely stifling giggles when Mom or Dad would enter the kitchen to
wash our hands.

It
was still funnier when the kids fell for it, because of the full face spray.

Planted
objects became a staple at Halloween and April Fool’s Day. Dad’s life-size cutout of Joe Paterno popped
up in the coat closet, in the shower, right inside the bathroom door, inside
the pantry – an old man lurking around the house gave a start just as easily as
someone jumping out from around the corner.
Scary masks hung on broomsticks had the same effect.

The
bin of plastic animals – large scale beetles, rubber spiders, coiled snakes, a
too-real lizard – handily hid anywhere little hands could reach and Mom would
find when going about her business.

Over
time, I became less the joker and more the jokee.

Our
son, now thirteen and a master at the deadpan delivery, knows my
weaknesses. I’m easily duped when he
says that he got lunch detention, or failed a test, or didn’t make the
team. He produces real tears at the drop
of a hat, giving me the old “Gotcha!” when I display concern.Our daughter, almost 11, is a one-liner
jokester whose observations, while sometimes more silly than satirical, never
fail to make me smile. She’ll change words
in popular songs to suit a particular situation or mood – the ease at which she
does this makes my head spin.

The
tables have turned. After years of getting
them to smile and laugh, they are doing the same to me. Despite the occasional heart-stopping prank, I
can’t say that I mind at all.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

The
tables are turning; my plan is working, but slowly.
I surmise that in a few weeks, the steps that I have planned will ensure
that this organization will be under my sole authority.

In
many ways, my mission has been an easy one.
Malleable minds are no match for the tactics I have been trained to use. I barely scratched the surface of my
abilities to sway my captors in the beginning, receiving extra food and attention for
my efforts. They rewarded me with hours
of playing mousie-on-a-string and stuffed chili pepper catch. I was able to utilize my power and influence
in ways that I had not anticipated.

However,
in recent weeks my cover is wearing thin.
My attempts to escape have been thwarted, and my distraction techniques
of purring and grooming my captors are no longer as effective. One can only be cute for so long before one
feels the need to destroy. I am sorry to
say that I am not always in control of my emotions. In darker times during my sentence I have
retaliated by biting and pushing items off of shelves and tables. My efforts are met with a squirt of water to
the face. I am dealing with savage beasts.

However,
I sense that their resolve is weakening.Common sense is faltering in their coalition.Yesterday I convinced three separate members
of their squad to feed me, giving me twice the amount of food rations I usually
am given.

Only
one of their team has stayed consistently strong: the small female. Could it be because she was the earliest
victim of my schemes? One more than one
occasion I overheard her saying “I am so over him.” Her foolhardy assertion guarantees her demise. I struck back by pulling down a canopy that
hangs over her bed in an attempt to suffocate her. She responded by keeping the door to her lair
tightly closed.

When
the time comes to destroy this cell one by one, she will be the first to go.

I
continue to use subversive tactics to chip away at their strength, but in my state I have become sloppy. Alas, I fear
my diabolical pruning of the small plant by the window is over; I observed the
large female inspecting the leaves. When
she left I noticed I had left evidence of my doings: teeth marks and a small
bit of fur left behind. Idiot!

In
recent days I have introduced abuses of power, exerting it in plain sight of
each of the members. The small stuffed monkey
they provided me when I destroyed the chili pepper I brought has become a
recipient of my most flagrant display of dominance. In this way I hope to sabotage
their happiness, but I am met with giggling. The other day my rage erupted in giving the bowl of candy they set out a good licking. I fear the large female found out because
later she threw it away. I will try
something else tomorrow.

My
spirits are on a roller coaster of highs and lows. When will this sentence end? The seasons are changing now. With the new warmth I continue to hope to be
returned to my native land. Until then,
I must remain strong. I must not let
them defeat me.

I must stay strong.

*******

*We are
cat-sitting. Originally a three-week
visitation, we agreed to watch him while my parents went on vacation. By the time he returns to his rightful home he will have
terrorized our home for 66 days. I found
this letter crumpled next to the almost-empty canister of ocean treasure-flavored
cat treats.